You Guessed It
by AmatorLinguae
Summary: Yet another 221B series. What can I say? Thank you, KCS, for a great idea! This will be used for scraps of ideas that wouldn't fit into my other stories, and also for any randomness that breaks my writer's block... #6: A little New Year's spirit.
1. Bride

**Bride**

The urge to write struck at the most inconvenient times. Once on, the spigot of inspiration would not be shut off; if he were not to forget all his ideas, they must be written down as soon as they flashed into his brain. Watson scribbled madly for some minutes, trying to keep up with the flood, and by the time it had ebbed to a manageable flow his hand was cramping up. He massaged it, wishing fervently for the gift of ambidexterity.

Suddenly his head snapped up, and he took on the look of a convict who has forgotten that today he is to be executed. He slapped his pen down on the desk, narrowly missed spilling the ink-bottle over his newly wrought pages, and rushed down seventeen steps three at a time. A cab was waiting outside the door, and he somehow managed to leap in, shout the address, and throw the fee up to the driver at the same time. Just as he realized he had used sovereigns, not shillings, the horses were whipped up almost to a gallop and the vehicle sped madly over the cobbles. Watson had time to whisper a few fervent prayers, and then they were there.

He smiled, straightened his cravat one last time, and started down the aisle to claim his blushing bride.


	2. Bridegroom

**Bridegroom**

_Yep, a follow-up… couldn't resist. ;) This is for all of you who wondered what Holmes' take on the situation was!_

Sherlock Holmes was growing nervous. Watson _had_ seemed rather excited when he left Baker Street, but surely it was the bride's prerogative to develop cold feet? He looked at his watch again. They had agreed that the doctor would arrive ten minutes early, to be on the safe side. It was now a full six minutes past that time.

He couldn't help himself. He paced. He wished he could light a pipe, or at least a cigarette, in these sacred surroundings, but even such a Bohemian best man dared not attempt it. He looked at his watch again. Only two minutes till the deed was done. If, of course, all necessary parties were present. Holmes allowed himself a ray of hope, then quashed it. His friend was a man of sense and prudence, but not in romantic matters. Watson would wed the Morstan girl, come hell or high water.

Out came the pocket watch again. One minute. Where _was_ he? Holmes did not put it away this time, but held it open, staring alternately at the watch hands and down the nave of the church.

Finally! The man himself, on the very stroke. Holmes had hoped to speak with Watson before the ceremony, but fate was clearly against him today. _So be it_. The detective straightened, and smiled at the bridegroom.


	3. Bed

**Bed**

_These things are addicting. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I really appreciate them._

Watson's pen scribbled madly. He was a sculptor – shaving off a bit here, smoothing there… After what seemed a few minutes, he bethought himself of the time and took out his watch. A quick gasp broke the silence of the little room. He got up, wincing a little at the stiffness of his joints, and consulted the clock. 3:15 AM.

In the Baker Street days Holmes would have dropped in with a genial "My dear fellow, it is a most unreliable doctor who does not follow his own advice." Watson would retort that he was not going to bed until his friend had; a few more moments of amiable banter and both would retire, smiling. Then came his marriage, and the task had fallen to Mary, who could generally persuade him to confine his writing to the daylight hours. Now, in the cold November of 1893, there were nothing but memories to give a gentle reprimand.

He rubbed at his eyes, and a sudden weariness weighed him down so that he could hardly reach his writing table. He closed his journal, stacked his notes, and bestowed them lovingly in a drawer, which he locked against the intrusions of the maid. Watson sighed, glanced at the yellowed letter hanging on the wall and the wedding photograph beside it, and prepared for bed.


	4. Brine

**Brine**

_Apologies for not updating in forever! I should have more time once summer starts._

Water – on my skin, in my eyes, in my mouth. Something dark and heavy struck me, and I flailed out, trying to catch hold of it. It was long and sinewy, and my grasp slipped a little as the current tugged at it. It slid past, and my fingers clutched a human hand. I screamed, as I had not done even at Maiwand, and saw bubbles of air escape to the roiling surface. My lungs were burning.

In my horror I had let go, and now I could see nothing but a faint dark shape, rapidly vanishing. I swam after it, frantic now. I was drowning, but if I surfaced to breathe I would lose him. _Holmes. Let it be Holmes and not Moriarty. _Now that I was trying to swim I could feel the full force of Reichenbach's current. It spun me over and sideways and into branches and rocks. There was no time now to reach the surface. I screamed my friend's name uselessly, and my last breath of air left me. I curled my body into a ball and waited to die –

And woke, coughing and gasping in great draughts of air. I was in my own bed, tangled in the blankets, but my face was wet. A drop trickled into my mouth – not river-water. More like brine.


	5. Block

**Block**

_Thanks for the reviews, everybody! They really mean a lot to me. _

My shoulder twinged painfully as I struck out, aiming for the point of the chin. My blow was brushed aside and I barely avoided a swift return jab myself. _Blast it, the man _must_ have a weakness…_

Oh, dear. Rather too close there. I raised my hands in time and riposted with a vicious left, grunting with the effort. There! Not a knock-out blow, but it sent him reeling. I dropped my hands slightly and prepared to finish him…

My head snapped back as every bone from my mandible to the top of my skull seemed to crash together. My vision went dark and bright at the same time, and when it cleared I found myself resting on the sitting-room couch, with a worried Sherlock Holmes above me.

"I do beg your pardon, my dear fellow. I'm afraid I forgot myself for a moment. You're not hurt, are you?"

"Dunthicksho…" a garbled mess came out of my mouth, accompanied by a little blood.

Holmes dabbed at it with a handkerchief. "You've bitten your tongue."

"Yesh, I know."

A few minutes later I was feeling more myself. "Holmes, how did you recover so fast? I thought you were done for."

"Merely acting, my boy. If I may give a word of advice…"

"Yes?"

"Next time, my dear fellow, don't forget to block!"

_I seem to be picking on poor Watson lately… Yes, I have watched the Russian STUDY. :-)_


	6. Bright

**Bright**

_Sorry for the long absence! Hiatus is over now, and I promise the other story is getting worked on as well._

Christmas of 1893 had been nothing special. In fact, he had spent the entirety of the day in his laboratory in Montpellier working on a particularly stubborn specimen, whose secrets had finally been torn out of it at about 3 AM on Boxing Day. Sherlock Holmes had never been a very avid merrymaker.

Still, the eve of the New Year should not go unmarked. Thus his present position at a rather uncomfortable desk, writing up yet another report for the Foreign Office on that matter in Khartoum. He paused for a moment, and checked the clock again. Ten till twelve.

He got up and stretched, wincing as the cramps worked themselves out. He went back to the chair, wrote a few more lines, checked the clock again. Three minutes till.

One hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a much-handled bit of paper. He read over the lines he had written, frowned, and crumpled it up. It went sailing through the air to join its brothers in the wastebasket. With a snarl he sank back into the chair and closed his eyes in gloomy meditation.

A clock nearby began to strike the hour, and distant cheers sounded. A faint smile creased his face, and without opening his eyes he began to whistle an old Scottish tune, lonely but oddly bright.


End file.
